136 years ago today my favorite poet, Adelaide Crapsey, was born. To honor her, here are a few of her poems. But first, a poem written by me, which is a tribute to her. It was inspired by the second picture, the darker one. I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry for it in 2006, and it took 4th Place in the First Annual Adelaide Awards the same year. It was initially published in Amaze: The Cinquain Journal # 8, Spring 2006. Adelaide Crapsey by Paul Ingrassia Whisper of flame at dusk twinkles on the lakes edge, shadow-shrouded, frail - eternal echoes. ~~~ Now, on to Adelaides work. One of my favorite poems by her. I am so able to relate to this poem. It is an American Cinquain, the five line poetic form she created. Trapped Well and If day on day Follows, and weary year On year...and ever days and years... Well? ~~~ A few more Cinquains by Adelaide. November Night Listen. . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crispd, break from the trees And fall. ~~~ Triad These be Three silent things: The falling snow. .the hour Before the dawn. .the mouth of one Just dead. ~~~ Languor After Pain Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists. ~~~ The Saying of Il Haboul Guardian Of The Treasure Of Solomon And Keeper Of the Prophets Armour My tent A vapour that The wind dispels and but As dust before the wind am I Myself. ~~~ Some of her work in other poetic forms. Adventure Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly... Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me! ~~~ An amazing couplet. Adelaide was a master of saying very much in so few words. On Seeing Weather Beaten Trees Is it as plainly in our living shown, By slant and twist, which way the wind has blown? ~~~ Warning to the Mighty Ere the horned owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there shall Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away, Heres a King, the worms shall say. ~~~ The Witch When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx, Learned all his dreaming from eyes. I bore in Greece a burning name, And I have been in Italy Madonna to a painter-lad, And mistress to a Medici. And have you heard (and I have heard) Of puzzled men with decorous mien, Who judged -- the wench knew far too much -- And burnt her on the Salem green? ~~~ This poem was not collected in her only published poetry collection, entitled Verse. This was written at Lake Saranac in November 1913 while she suffered from Tuberculosis, which eventually killed her in October 1914. TO THE DEAD IN THE GRAVE-YARD UNDER MY WINDOW How can you lie so still? All day I watch And never a blade of all the green sod moves To show where restlessly you toss and turn, And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth To take its freedom of the midnight hour. Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? The very worms must scorn you where you lie, A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk, Meek inhabitants of unresented graves. Why are you there in your straight row on row Where I must ever see you from my bed That in your mere dumb presence iterate The text so weary in my ears: Lie still And rest; be patient and lie still and rest. Ill not be patient! I will not lie still! There is a brown road runs between the pines, And further on the purple woodlands lie, And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; And I would walk the road and I would be Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds. My eyes follow but my feet are held. Recumbent as you others must I too Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? And if the many sayings of the wise Teach of submission I will not submit But with a spirit all unreconciled Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. Better it is to walk, to run, to dance, Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, To know the open skies of dawn and night, To move untrammeld down the flaming noon, And I will clamour it through weary days Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp, Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips Of resignation, sister to defeat. Ill not be patient. I will not lie still. And in ironic quietude who is The despot of our days and lord of dust Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop Grim casual comment on rebellions end; Yes;yes. . . Wilful and petulant but now As dead and quiet as the others are. And this each body and ghost of you hath heard That in your graves do therefore lie so still. ~~~ This final poem is the last in her book, Verse, which was published postmortem. The Immortal Residue Inscription for my verse Wouldst thou find my ashes? Look In the pages of my book; And as these thy hand doth turn, Know here is my funeral urn. ~~~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ADELAIDE!
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 00:13:51 +0000
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